


Triple Bogey

by smoothsailing



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Dimirev, Established Relationship, Grigor thinks it's hilarious, I Will Go Down With This Ship, M/M, Sascha gets angry, Teasing, smut ensues because doesn't it always, they both suck at mini golf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-30
Updated: 2018-09-30
Packaged: 2019-07-20 21:13:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16145627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smoothsailing/pseuds/smoothsailing
Summary: Grigor and Sascha are both terrible at mini golf.





	Triple Bogey

**Author's Note:**

> hope you're not fed up with this pairing because I'm just getting started lmao

Grigor can't find his balls. No, really, he can't find his balls. You'd think that bright green would be hard to miss but apparently they don't stand out on this astroturf. He can even hear Sascha snickering as Grigor's bending over and trying to find those damn golf balls.

"Hurry up, Grigor, wouldn't want to get sucked into a hole," Sascha says. Grigor rolls his eyes and straightens up.

"Fine, then give me one of yours," Grigor mutters. Sascha runs his tongue underneath his front teeth in a way that would've made Grigor blush if he was still a dumb kid, and palms one of his blue balls into Grigor's outstretched hand.

Sascha leans on his club, says, "You're, what, three strokes above par? That’s a triple bogey, Grigor! C'mon, before we all die of boredom."

Grigor stares at Sascha steadily, and Sascha blinks and looks away with some pink high on his cheekbones. Grigor hums and bends over to putt the ball just past the windmill's jerky arms and right next to the hole.

Shit.

Now Sascha's going to say…

"Wow, _stone hands_."

Grigor called it. Sascha walks by him, brushing his hand just over the small of Grigor's back. Grigor straightens up and watches Sascha bend over, placing his ball just so on some imaginary tee. Tiger Woods, Sascha isn't.

 

Sascha putts, and the ball slips past the windmill and plops into the hole after wobbling on the edge for ten painful seconds. Sascha jumps, pumps his fist like he just hit a phenomenal winner.

"You going to kiss your shirt too?" Grigor mutters, and Sascha looks him  _right_  in the eyes as he pulls his shirt high enough to kiss. Grigor can see Sascha's abs, and the top of his underwear waistband.

Grigor looks. He's not  _dead_. Sascha kisses his shirt and drops it back, shooting Grigor a look that he probably thinks is seductive from under his eyelashes. Too bad Sascha can't really smolder unlike  _some_ people.

If the fucker wants to play for keeps, Grigor can play for keeps. He walks over to the next hole, this one populated by plastic flamingos. Grigor's pretty sure flamingos like warmer weather, but he has a game to win. He looks at the lie of the green bristles on the ground. Considers.

 

He may stroke his club suggestively as he's thinking about what would take the least effort. Sascha lays his hand over Grigor's moving hands, and they both look at each other for a few beats.

Sascha glares, Grigor smirks. Nothing new.

"Like I said, Grigor," Sascha says, deadly slow, rubbing a thumb over Grigor's knuckles and sliding it in between them, "Get moving." Grigor looks at Sascha's hand, then up at his best try at a stone face, and licks his lips.

He's not going to lose this round.

 

Grigor swings, landing the ball just right next to a cluster of angry-looking birds, and hopes Sascha has a worse time than Grigor did.

Actually, why hope when you can do it?

Grigor smirks to himself as he creeps up behind Sascha, who's smirking too hard and looking at his own ball too hard to listen for Grigor.

Sascha has a nice ass, and Grigor presses his dick against it, making the back of Sascha's neck turn brick red. Sascha just tightens his grip on his club. Grigor breathes hard on the back of Sascha's neck, tracing the flush with his fingers, and Sascha  _growls_  before he chips the ball hard.

The ball takes out a flamingo, and Grigor leans back, pretending to look at the sky.

Sascha narrows his eyes, "I hope you like losing, Dimitrov."

 

Grigor blows him a kiss, and he can see Sascha grind his teeth. Grigor hums to himself as he picks the ball through the flamingo legs and tantalizingly close to the hole.

Sascha bites his lips and digs his own ball out of the small sand trap, not giving Grigor any eye contact as he swings his hips through the follow-through. Sascha's shirt is really a little too short on him, and Grigor allows himself to think about pushing it up to his armpits as he rubs off on Sascha's chest.

Sascha jerks his eyes over the front of Grigor's shorts, and he smirks as they watch Sascha's ball knock Grigor's ball out of position. It's Grigor's turn to glare at Sascha, and now he has to bend over to pick out a damn shot.

 

Grigor doesn't moan when he feels Sascha groping his ass and sliding the thin mesh of his shorts over his asshole, no matter what Sascha may say. Grigor has to remind himself not to lock his knees. Sascha would be fingering him if Grigor's shorts weren't in the way, and shit, he regrets picking today as the day to run out of underwear.

The noise Sascha makes when he realizes that Grigor isn't wearing underwear does absolutely nothing for his hard-on. Grigor's more concerned about whether he can tuck his dick under the elastic waistband without being arrested for public indecency than he is about making the fucking putt.

Grigor pushes back against Sascha's fingers, trying to buy some time to just snap his waistband against his dick, but Sascha just leans closer, nudging his club far too close to the super-obvious bulge in his shorts. Sascha doesn't say anything, but Grigor can feel him radiate smugness from  _all over_.

Grigor grinds his teeth and barely manages to sink the ball. The ball goes in, and Sascha's still wrapped around his back. Sascha's hand just slides into Grigor's shorts enough to trap Grigor's dick against the waistband, his foreskin rubbing just this side of uncomfortable against the crinkled elastic. The dirty fucker smears Grigor's precum across his shorts, and Grigor digs his teeth into his lip as he straightens up slowly. Grigor would say thanks, but Sascha's just too--

Evil.

 

Grigor looks at Sascha, who's shrugging his shoulders as he tries out swings, as if his tucking Grigor's dick away didn't even happen. The corners of Sascha's mouth are lifted up in a very restrained smirk, and Grigor finds himself laying his hands on Sascha's hips and tilting them.

"You kinda suck at swinging," Grigor says, "No follow-through at all, you have to swing those hips. They don't lie."

Grigor would kiss the base of Sascha's neck, but Sascha's just a little too tall in those fucking sneakers. Instead he slides his fingertips over the arches of Sascha's hips, scraping his nails lightly over the thin skin. Sascha makes a strangled noise and jerks away from Grigor. Grigor steps back with raised eyebrows, and watches Sascha try to bend over with wood in his shorts.

Grigor leans on his club, watching Sascha glare his ball into the hole-- and fail. The ball falls short-- or actually falls long, but Grigor knows he's winning  _now_. Sascha snarls something, probably in Russian, and definitely about Grigor. Grigor grins.

Sascha has to putt again. Grigor drinks in the clench in Sascha's jaw, the heated look in his eyes, and the firm grip he has on the shaft of the club.

Sascha overshoots, the ball skipping merrily over the hole and bumping against the low wall painted in a cheery shade of pink.

 

"God fucking damn it," Sascha says, bending the club over his thigh and bashing the mangled club against the astroturf. Grigor's losing it now, laughter making him shake. Sascha's eyes are scrunched up like an angry kitten's, and the effect just makes Grigor laugh harder.

Sascha grips Grigor's arms, "This is  _your_  fault."

Grigor looks up, licks his lips, and says, “Yeah I'm not the one who forfeited." Sascha blinks, looks at his bent golf club, and swears softly.

Grigor pries Sascha's hands off him, says, "Why don't you explain...  _this_  to the nice equipment people, and I'd... be in the car?"

Grigor makes sure to wiggle his butt as he walks away from Sascha.

 

Grigor slides in the front seat of Sascha's car, playing with the keys in his hands and letting the sun bake him slowly until he sees Sascha scurry out with an abashed look on his face. Sascha pulls open the car door, and says, "I had to autograph every fucking thing in that place. You owe me."

"I'm not the one who decided to bend a club over my thigh," Grigor chirps, free and easy like the breeze that's blowing into the car.

Sascha presses Grigor against the back of the seat, says with as much threat as he can muster, "I  _can_  bend you over."

Grigor looks Sascha up and down. Sascha's filled out a little, sure, but they both know who's going to give it up. It's not Grigor. Sascha leans down a little, slides the seat all the way back and clambers in, squashing Grigor against the leather. Sascha slams the door closed behind him and leans heavily against the front of Grigor's shorts.

Sascha's eyes drop down to Grigor's lips, his own mouth slightly open. Grigor pulls Sascha in by his neck and kisses him, leaning him back against the steering wheel. Sascha gives into Grigor's mouth, dragging his lips over Grigor's teeth. Grigor fists his hands in Sascha's shirt, slides his tongue into Sascha's sweet mouth just as--

_HONNNNK HONNNNK HONNNK_

 

They both startle, Sascha pushing Grigor against the ceiling as he fumbles away from the horn. Grigor slinks to the cavernous back seat, trying to recover whatever action he had going on. His pulse's pounding in his ears, and Sascha shoots him a sheepish grin.

"Ok, that was my fault," allows Grigor, muttering to his shirt. Sascha rolls his eyes and yanks Grigor's shirt off. Grigor licks his lips and Sascha squeezes Grigor's jaw.

"You've been licking your mouth the whole fucking time we've been here," mutters Sascha, rubbing his hand right where Grigor's shorts are trapping his dick. Grigor doesn't blush, not even when Sascha adds, "Just you know, I'm going to make you pay."

Grigor looks Sascha up and down-- well as much as he can in this damn car-- and licks his lips again. Sascha makes an annoyed noise and rakes his hands through Grigor's hair, his eyes clearly saying  _get the fuck on with it, you tease_. Grigor's not kind, forcing down Sascha's shorts and mouthing the wet spot on his boxers.

Sascha groans, pushing Grigor's head down against his hard-on. Grigor shoves his hand up one of the legs of Sascha's boxers, teasing at his balls, making Sascha’s hips buckle just a little. Grigor tries to scoot down but he bumps into the door handle and barks his shin on it. He grimaces into Sascha's thigh, and Sascha says something about Grigor not moving so damn much.

Grigor slides his hand up higher, stroking the base of Sascha's dick and mouthing the head through the thin cotton of his boxers. Sascha hums underneath Grigor, and Grigor jabs his tongue right on the slit of Sascha's dick.

Sascha pulls at Grigor's hair, snarls, " _Tease_ ", and Grigor looks up at Sascha, rubs his asshole dry and rough. Sascha bites his lip and rest his head against the window as Grigor pushes down his boxers to actually suck him off. Grigor swallows easily around Sascha's dick, pins him down with a firm forearm so that he doesn't try to fuck Grigor's mouth.

Grigor leans in, sucks hard and deep. Sascha can feel his dick bumping the back of Grigor’s throat. He’s writhing on top of Grigor and is desperately trying to last longer, but he can’t. Sascha comes with a strangled moan and the  _squeaaaak_  of his sweaty hands against the windows. Grigor feels a little mean, licks up the cum around Sascha's dick just to feel his legs melt against the leather seats.

When Grigor pulls back, Sascha's mouth is slack and almost red from all the biting he did to it, trying not to shout. Grigor smirks to himself and drags his lips over Sascha's oversensitive mouth.

Sascha pushes back against him, trying to work up a glare but he still hasn’t come down from his orgasm. Grigor leans back against the opposite door and sniggers, and Sascha mutters, "Insolent."

Grigor raises his eyebrows, says, "Made you come, didn't I?”

He drags his index finger across his lower lip, fake-wonders, "Now, who was winning when you got so fucking pissed?"

 

Sascha's face is still pink from coming, but he manages to add to the flush he has. Sascha flattens Grigor against the door, making the handle dig a little too close to Grigor's kidney, and says, "I hate you."

Grigor folds an arm behind his head and makes Sascha scoot down with his free hand. Sascha's uncomfortable, wedged in awkwardly between the floor and the seat, and Grigor grins. That’s what he gets for being a fucking _giraffe_.

Sascha looks up, and snaps the elastic waistband of Grigor's shorts against him. Grigor flinches, and he pulls at Sascha's hair to no effect. Sascha's too busy smirking. Grigor doesn't grit his teeth, but he does slide his dick on Sascha's cheek  _insistently_.

Sascha grips Grigor's dick, pressing it down against his abs, and he lays the flat of his tongue against the head. Grigor wants to yell but that would be losing and he wants to win.

He also wants Sascha to suck him off, _dammit_. Sascha's slow, and sloppy as hell, leaving a wet spot on Grigor's shorts, and Grigor squirms at the thought at having to go home like  _this_. Sascha runs a hand under Grigor's shirt, rakes a nail over one of his nipples and rubs it. Grigor presses against his hand, feeling himself sweat a little between the overwarm car and Sascha winding him up, but he can keep his mouth shut.

Sascha licks hard, sucking right between Grigor's dick and balls, and Grigor pushes back into Sascha's mouth. His own breathing sounds harsh, and Grigor just wants Sascha to slide his mouth deeper, make him close those eyes, hollow those dumb cheeks. Grigor digs his nails into his palms when Sascha finally slides his lips around his cock, sucking painfully lightly on it.

 

Sascha presses his tongue in slow circles on Grigor's dick, while one of his hands traces the outline of Grigor’s abs. Grigor scrubs a hand through his hair, resists the urge to fuck Sascha's mouth, and Sascha fucking  _hums_. Sascha presses his hot hands on Grigor's thighs, digging his fingertips into the pale skin there. Grigor tosses his head back, the back of his skull bumping against the glass and Grigor's too fucking into Sascha sucking him off to even care.

Sascha tightens his lips around Grigor, and presses his fingers right into the tendons in Grigor's thighs, and Grigor thrusts up into his mouth as he comes, a faint _yeaaaah_ escaping him. Grigor trails his fingers across Sascha's hair, pressing slowly into his mouth as Sascha licks him clean. Sascha pulls off, scrapes his teeth over one of the red ovals on Grigor's thighs and looks up at him.

Grigor licks his lips.  _Slowly_.

Maybe they can call it a draw.

 


End file.
